Now You See Me
by lastcrazyhorn
Summary: Hotch is kidnapped and tortured by a mysterious unsub. Will his team find him in time? Or will he have to get himself out? Non-con.
1. Taken

**Chapter 1**

Hotchner came back to consciousness slowly. His head was pounding, and his mouth felt dead.

_Where?_ Was his first groggy thought.

Memories of a man with a gun at his head were beginning to flit across his mind. They'd been at a crime scene in downtown Dallas, searching through the old warehouse where the last body had been found, when a voice had made him stop in his tracks.

"_Freeze," the man had whispered. The sound had slid straight down Hotch's spine, stopping his body cold. He could feel a heavy weight pressing at the back of his head, and he knew the man was armed. Furthermore, the last three victims were still fresh in his mind; making him more than aware of what the man was capable of._

All three had been men; all three had been brutally raped, molested, beaten and then finally shot.

The fear of his situation was finally cutting through the haze in his mind, bringing him the final steps to full wakefulness. He was cold where he was laid out face down across a cement floor, and it was with a sickening start that he realized he was completely naked. The floor was rough and had a slimy feel to it, only increasing his chill.

Carefully, in deference to his pounding headache, he tried to sit up, not realizing that his wrists were tied to posts on opposite sides of the room. Thwarted, he sunk back down to the ground with a barely suppressed groan.

Unbidden, a memory of Foyet popped into his mind and he felt a shiver work its way through his body at the helpless feel of it. When Foyet had taken his shirt off and crouched over his body, time had stopped for him as he had realized just how helpless he was. Foyet's hands had touched his torso lightly, before skittering down lower to press against his groin. He remembered looking into the other man's eyes and seeing insanity staring back down at him. He had never told any of his teammates, not even Rossi, that before stabbing him again, Foyet had fondled him through his trousers.

God, he could remember that moment of his life so damn well. It haunted him in his nightmares and assaulted him at odd times of the day. He remembered the sick feeling in his stomach and throat as Foyet had held his cloth covered cock in his hand. He had been completely at the other man's mercy, and they both had known it. Foyet could have done _anything_ to him, and he wouldn't have been able to stop him.

"_It goes in so much easier if you're relaxed," Foyet_ _had whispered, pressing his knife into his body._

Aaron couldn't stop the words from springing into his mind.

"_Now I understand that profilers think that stabbing is a substitution for the act of sex. That if somebody's impotent, they'll use a knife instead. Is that what you think, Agent Hotchner? Maybe this will change the way that you profile."_

If he hadn't mentioned anything about Foyet molesting him _through_ his slacks, then he certainly wouldn't have said anything about what Foyet did then.

Aaron closed his eyes tightly and tried to make the memory stop, but it didn't work—it never worked. He could still hear the sound of his zipper being pulled down, allowing Foyet access to his cock. Thank god, thank _god_ that it hadn't gone much further. Foyet had pressed his knife to _him_; all while leering at him with that twisted face of his.

"_I could make you more than impotent_," _the monster had whispered in his ear. _

And then he had completely lost consciousness. The next thing he had known was being in the hospital, thankful to still be _physically intact_, if not sound. The threat had been very much there, and Aaron didn't know why Foyet hadn't gone through on it. Perhaps it had been because he had lost consciousness, and a victim isn't nearly as fun to taunt when he isn't aware of his tormentor.

It still gave him chills to think of what else Foyet might have done to him while he hadn't been aware. He had given up trying to make himself believe that it wouldn't have mattered. It _did_ matter. It was still _his_ body.

He couldn't contain a shudder, but he could keep his surprise from being voiced when someone spoke from behind him.

"So _pretty_," the unsub whispered, his soft voice loud and piercing in the deafening silence that surrounded them.

The other man had likely been watching him the entire time. Aaron could have kicked himself for not realizing it. True, the headache had (and still) muddled his brain a bit, but that was no excuse. It was mistakes like this that got men killed.

Now he could hear it, the sound of another man breathing in and out as he slowly stepped closer to Hotchner's prone form. He tried not to tense, to not show fear. He forced himself to stay relaxed.

_Like Foyet had said_, was the whispered voice across his mind. _Shut up_, he told it firmly, even as a calloused hand reached out and touched the back of his leg.

He jerked a little, he couldn't help it, but then he forcibly stilled himself as the man's fingers crept up his body. His hands were bound tight, with very little give. For all intents and purposes, he was still completely helpless.

The man's hand lingered on his ass, and Hotchner tried not to imagine the look on the unsub's face as he beheld his future prize. All three victims had been brutally raped, but perhaps that had only been at the end. The men had each been missing for at least a week before turning up brutalized, and one man had been gone for as much as ten days before showing up dead.

"So _pretty,_" the words were spoken again, much closer this time, and Hotchner closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. He needed to keep his head now, and not lose his focus.

He felt the rough scratch of another man's hairy chest on his back, and he didn't need to see him to know that the unsub was completely naked. Hotch could feel the other man's cock from where it pushed against his lower back, and he could tell that his kidnapper was aroused. It sickened him to think of what was likely to happen, but there wasn't much else he could do, except try and stay alive long enough for his team to find him.

"Who are you?" Hotch whispered out against the pressure of the man's weight lying atop him.

Silence and Hotch wondered if he was going to be struck for daring to speak. From what they could tell already, this unsub had a need to be in control, to _be_ the strong one. He was likely very smart, but probably worked in a position below his intelligence level; something that allowed him the time it took to kidnap and torture another human being, all without being missed. In turn, he was also probably a loner, someone with very few contacts outside of his work. There was no one in his life who really knew him, really knew what he was capable of. This unsub was potentially the perfect chameleon.

"Michael," the unsub finally whispered in his ear. "Call me Michael."

"You don't have to do this, Michael," Hotch tried next. "Let me go and I promise that we'll help you."

Hotch could feel wet open-mouthed kisses being placed along his neck and spine, and the feeling only added to the slimy sensation already present on his skin. He balled his hands into fists, but didn't react in any other way.

"I don't want your help, _Aaron_," Michael whispered seductively into his ear and then reaching his tongue out to lick his earlobe. "I want _you_."

Hotchner was not a small man, but he could already tell that Michael was much bigger. With a frightening amount of ease, Hotch felt his body being pulled up until he was left resting on his elbows and knees. The cold rough cement dug painfully into his joints, and he knew that it would get worse before it got better. The unsub's hands that had been sliding up and down his sides abruptly reached under his body and made for his groin.

"Oh my, Aaron," Michael's voice chuckled good naturedly in his ear. "You really _are_ a prize. All that talk about the '_big FBI man,'_ and I never once guessed that you would actually be _big_." One of Michael's hands curled up around his cock, and Hotch felt his cheeks burning with the combination of the other man's words and actions.

Belatedly, he realized that his headache was not a solitary symptom. Now that he was partially upright on his knees, he could tell that his balance was seriously compromised. He was also very nauseated and he realized that the room was dipping and swirling around him. Even if his hands hadn't been tied, he still wouldn't have been in any shape to fight back.

Distantly he could feel large fingers reaching out and squeezing his nipples tightly, the nubs themselves being twisted _painfully_ in his kidnapper's hands. It was clear that he was still fighting off the effects of whatever drug Michael had shot him up with shortly after getting his gun away from him.

Once more, he felt a hand moving towards his ass, and mentally he stilled himself. There was a sound of something being opened, and he breathed a silent 'thank you' to the Fates. Slick fingers touched his anus lightly; just enough to make him twitch, and then he felt a burn as one of those fingers pushed itself into his body.

In comparison with being stabbed, it wasn't that bad. It wasn't something that he wanted to have happen to him either though. His rectum had only ever moved things out, never in, and the feeling now was one of _wrongness. _A second finger was added a moment later, just as he had become somewhat used to the intrusion of the one finger. He could feel the two fingers working him, _stretching_ him, and he fought against himself to remain still, to be obedient. He didn't want this. He didn't, he didn't, he didn't—and he gasped aloud as a third finger was added. Now it hurt, and he wondered why some men enjoyed this, because he sure as hell didn't.

He couldn't feel the cold anymore. Sweat was beading across his face and back, and he could feel Michael from where they had begun to stick together. It was not at all a pleasant sensation.

And then, just as he thought he wouldn't be able to take anymore of the pain, the fingers in his ass moved to the side slightly and touched something within him that made stars flare in front of his eyes. Pleasure arched through him and he gasped again as he felt his cock twitch, becoming partially hard. Apparently Michael had found his prostate.

It did not escape Hotch that his tormentor was purposely using his own body against himself. He knew that his cock's reaction was only a physical one, but even that knowledge didn't help the shame for his situation.

"Ah, I see that at least part of you liked that," Michael said knowingly from behind him, three fingers still buried to the knuckles within him.

"Let's see how you like the real thing," the man added, finally removing his fingers. Hotch breathed a sigh of relief as the tight feeling in his ass disappeared for a moment. And then it was all he could do not to fight back as he felt the heat of a bare cock being pushed into his unwilling body.

He could tell that Michael had slicked himself up much like he had done to Hotchner's rectum, but even with that knowledge, he still didn't know how he was going to survive this without breaking in half. He couldn't breathe as the impossibly large object slowly shoved its way into his innards. The other man's cock felt like a tree trunk pushing into him, and he could feel every vein, every bump of it as it became part of him.

Hotchner was gasping, sweat streaming into his eyes as his rapist made him take the slow burning insertion of his cock into his ass. His own dick had fallen quiescent and he was at least thankful for that. It hurt, oh god it hurt, and he didn't care that he was silently crying; he didn't have any dignity left to lose as he was taken, opened up and violated by another.

Finally, finally, it was in him, all of it, and he could feel another man's pubic hair scratching his ass. He forced himself to breathe more deeply in an attempt to calm himself. His muscles in his legs and arms were shaking with the effort of remaining upright, and his nausea had not yet abated.

"You're tight," Michael panted out against his neck.

_Really? _ He thought angrily, not quite willing to voice the thought.

He felt Michael shift and he nearly vomited from the unexpected burst of pain. He swallowed hard, and then did it again when the bile continued to rise unabated. Clenching his eyes tightly, he tried to see his situation from an objective stance. How long had he been gone? Surely his team had noticed his absence by now.

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Michael began moving again. He could feel the man's large fingers clenching down on his hips as he withdrew most of the way from Hotch's ass. If the insertion was painful, then this was excruciating. It felt as though his guts were being pulled roughly from his body, and he couldn't help but give voice to a small whimper.

"Relax," Michael's soft voice brushed over his senses, and he tried not to shudder further when an image of Foyet popped into his mind.

Those fingers clenched again and Hotch readied himself as best he could for what he knew was coming next. He grunted as the unsub drove himself back into his unwilling flesh.

"Getting used to it now?" He barely heard over the pounding of his heart as the unsub began to rape him in earnest.

The big man's body covered his as he pounded in and out of his ass; one arm closely wrapped around his abdomen, while the other was propped against the floor, giving him the leverage needed. The grating feel of having a cock pushing and pulling within him was echoed in part by his elbows and knees as they were rocked unrelentingly back and forth across the rough cement floor underneath his body.

He was held tight between an arm and a cock, and the feeling filled him with an animalistic level of fear. He could smell the smell of their comingled sweat, as well as other familiar scents such as blood and semen. Out of nowhere, a hand reached up and grabbed his cock, and roughly began pulling on that too. Into his ass went the large cock, his knees and elbows further shredding as they were pushed hard across the floor, and down his cock he felt the rough hand push, reawakening a part of his anatomy that he much rather would have forgotten. Pushing and pulling, scraping and rubbing; his breath was caught in his throat and lungs, wheezing painfully in his throat, and he could feel the panting breath of his rapist against his neck as though a beast was slobbering against his neck.

He knew it was pointless to struggle, but he couldn't help but do so as the feel of his arousal grew in his monster's hands. He didn't want this, didn't at all! Push, pull; pain blossoming anew against the numbness of his joints as the unsub's steady motions became increasingly erratic. Push pull, scrape pant, friction building, pressure increasing, the hand on his cock burning horribly, even as he felt his balls begin drawing up. The unsub was hitting his prostate again, making pleasure rock through him, blending with the pain into an overwhelming wash of sensation. He was gasping, barely aware of the unsub's hand around his throat, severing his flow of oxygen every third or fourth wild thrust. Nearly on autopilot now, one frenzied motion as his insides were beaten hard by the thrusting cock within his rectum. His knees were bloodied, he could feel his legs being spread even more as the man above him sought to get the best angle. The unsub's body was tensing, burning into him like a brand, like a hot coal being pressed against his skin. He could feel the pain and sweet pleasure of his orgasm coming on fast and horrible, ripping through him like a train, like a bullet through a gun; being squeezed out of him like a nearly empty tube of toothpaste. Michael was holding him tightly, almost upright and he could feel the remaining circulation of his fingers fade as they were pulled painfully tight against his restraints. The hand on his cock was squeezing him like there was no tomorrow, and maybe there wasn't.

And then one final thrust, brutal in its intensity and he cried out helplessly as he felt his orgasm being pulled from him, against his will or want. A warm heat spread over his chest as his seed erupted onto him. Teeth were biting him fiercely on his shoulder, one final burst of pain served to herald Michael's own orgasm into his ass, filling him with the other man's hot seed.

It rolled through them both; Hotch shuddering, shaking as he tried to find his breath, tried to regain his sense of the world around him. The unsub's arms were still around him, holding him tightly enough to bruise, restricting the flow of blood through his body. He could feel uncomfortable fullness in his ass, and knew that the other man's ejaculation had only added to that ultimate violation.

Finally—_finally_—Michael was releasing him, laying him back down on the blood dampened floor. Were those strips of skin his? His knees and elbows were beginning to sting and make noises through the waning fade of the euphoria of his orgasm.

Pulling once more, Michael was _pulling_, removing himself from his ass, from his body. It hurt, gods it hurt, but finally they were free. Hotch could feel the warm spunk dripping from his ass, marking him as the unsub's _whore_, and he jerked away from the other man, curling up around himself. His breath was still pounding painfully in his lungs. He could taste the mucus and tears that had run down his face, and he dearly wanted a shower _away_ from this man, this monster. He wanted his team and he wanted to be _gone_ from this nasty place.

In a way, he got his wish as he felt the small bite of a hypodermic needle being _thrust_ into his thigh, making the world fade back to black.


	2. This or That

_**A/N: **Okay, I admit it. I'm evil. Yup. Oh well . . . _

**Chapter 2 – This or That **

Hotch awoke on a surface very unlike the one he had passed out on. It was soft, and unless he was very much mistaken, it was a bed that he was now on. Still not opening his eyes, he very slowly tried to move his hands. They were bound together with what felt like leather, and after pulling on them slightly, he realized that they were attached to the headboard with a thin sturdy chain.

_Like a dog_, the indignant voice in his mind pointed out.

He was aware that there was another person behind him—likely the unsub, Michael—but judging from the slow deep breaths he heard, the man was still asleep.

Silently, he tried to take stock of his physical state. His bladder was sending him rather urgent messages that he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore for much longer. He hoped that he wouldn't have to wake the other man up just to be able to take a piss.

He tried to shift from the position he was in and nearly groaned aloud with the pain those small movements had caused. His legs and shoulders were throbbing painfully, but it was barely noticeable compared to the pain in his groin and ass. In addition, he could also feel an array of pulled muscles all through his lower back and thighs that were likely adding to that pain. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, only to find himself looking into a big bunch of nothing. There was some kind of light coming from the opposite side of the bed, but it wasn't very strong and did very little to illuminate the room they were in. Given that he could see no walls around them, let alone windows, it was possible that they were in another warehouse of some sort.

Before he could evaluate much more, he felt his captor—his _rapist_—moving behind him, and then a big meaty hand was on his stomach, pulling him backwards into very unwelcome arms. Once more, he felt Michael's lips kissing the back of his neck and he tried to hold in his revulsion at the sensation.

"Michael?" He tried in what he hoped was a calm voice.

"Mmm?" The other man asked from where he had begun sucking the skin at back of his neck.

"Why did you pick me?" His was an honest interest. Of all of the men and women present in that warehouse, why had the unsub picked _him_?

"You were the prettiest," Michael murmured, rearranging his body until he was resting flat on his back. It was then that he realized that the ceiling above them was shrouded in darkness too.

"What does that mean?" He asked softly, the pain in his groin and the extreme pressure on his bladder making it hard for him to speak much louder.

The other man moved into his field of vision and it was all he could to contain a gasp of disbelief. His captor, the _unsub_ that they had flown down to help find, was none other than one of the police department's custodians. He _knew_ that Michael's voice had sounded familiar; just as he now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the large, well over 6 foot tall man was the same person that they seen cleaning up the department after hours. The man had initially made him think of a large lumberjack, minus the large axe.

"It means that you were the one that I wanted to fuck up the worst," Michael said, finally answering Hotch's previous question.

"Did I do something to offend you?" Aside from working on this case, he had never met the man above him.

Michael's hand was stroking his chest in a definite downwards direction and he hoped that his question would distract him from doing anything else to him.

_At least for a while_, was his rueful thought as he tried to surreptitiously move his bound hands in front of his groin.

"I could _smell_ you," the large man said as he leaned over and began _licking_ his neck. Hotch flinched and tried to pull away, but the man's giant hand abruptly began pushing harder against his chest, and he forced himself to still. It was very evident to him now that Michael would easily snap his bones if he so chose too.

He hated how the unsub was treating him. He felt _dirty_. The man reminded him of Foyet in a dark way that Hotch wasn't quite sure he wanted to analyze.

Finished with his neck for the moment, Michael sat back up and looked his body over with a predator's eye.

"Your power drew me to you. So _strong, _so _willful," _his captor said with a frightening grin. "Your _team—_how they interacted with you, how they loved you," the man said with a sigh. "It made me want to love you too, you see?" Michael said; drawing a sweat dampened hand down the side of his face covetously.

"And that made you angry," Hotch answered quietly, trying to maintain his dignity regardless of the circumstances surrounding them.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? Isn't that what they say?" Michael said, viciously backhanding him.

Hotch's head whipped to the side hard, and it stunned him for a moment. He could taste blood from where the slap had split his lip.

"Then again, since I _can _beat 'em, why should I give a damn either way?"

No, he was wrong. This man didn't remind him of Foyet at all; he reminded him of his father.

Taking a steadying breath after _that_ little realization, Hotch decided that it was time to tell this man one of his more pressing needs.

"Is there a toilet anywhere around here?" He asked as casually as he could. He didn't want to make it seem as though he actually _needed_ the damn thing, even if he _did_.

"Why yes, there is," the man leered suggestively down at him. "What will you give me for the right to go?"

He didn't answer, feeling as though the monster above him already had the script in place.

"I _know_," Hotch didn't like the sound of that at all. "Give me a kiss and we'll go find you some relief."

A kiss? And allow himself to be voluntarily manipulated?

"Fine," he all but growled out, feeling rather desperate.

Lips decided on his and he forced himself to be still, forced himself not to bite.

The mouth pulled away and he found himself looking up into a disapproving face.

"That wasn't a kiss," was the unsub's complaint to him. "I want your mouth, _Agent _Hotchner."

Well, between that and being raped again, a kiss was certainly the lesser of two evils. He tried to tell himself that as those hateful lips decided upon his mouth again. He tried to remember that as he opened his jaw ever so slightly and allowed that repulsive tongue access to his mouth, to his teeth and to his oral cavity. This time when the man's mouth pulled away, it was done with a clearly visible smile that Hotch could have just as well done without seeing.

"Much better," the unsub praised him with a suggestive tilt to his voice. Then, without any further ado, the man reached over and undid the lock from the chain that was attached to the headboard. A moment later Hotch was off the bed, being led painfully across the room by the chain connected to the cuffs around his wrists.

_Like a dog_, he thought again.

He very nearly fell as he first stood up, but his desire not to be _touched _by the unsub was great enough to overrule the urge to faint or fall.

The man led him across the empty expanse of darkness that still surrounded them with an ease that Hotch found a bit unnerving. The room was large, and the floor was cold cement not much unlike the floor that he had been raped on initially.

Suddenly, a light was thrown on and he was momentarily blinded. Not caring about his prisoner's lack of sight, Michael continued to tug on his chain, causing him to stumble a few times before his vision began returning. By that point, Hotch realized that they were in a smaller room than the one they had just left. To one side sat a row of sinks—no mirrors, Hotch noted with some interest—and along the other side of the room he saw a very large tub. On the wall opposite from where they had come in was a set of urinals and then finally, a toilet.

By this point, his need to go was very nearly all he could think about, and the sight of that blessed fixture very nearly caused him to cry out.

"Do you want me to help you?" Michael asked him with a knowing glance down at his bound hands.

"I'll just sit," Hotch replied testily, not wanting any form of _help_ from this man.

Michael led him to the toilet and he slowly eased his aching body down on it. As he was—_thankfully_—doing his business, he couldn't help but notice the unsub's unrelenting stare over his body. However, despite his discomfort with the naked man standing by, the release of urine from his body still caused him to relax enough to close his eyes, if only for a brief moment.

After finishing and feeling much more human again, Hotch looked up to see discover that his captor was now sporting a full erection. Even more discomfiting however, was his realization that his mouth was exactly on par with the engorged body part. Moving to stand, Hotch didn't expect the larger man to suddenly drop a meaty paw down on his shoulder, dropping him back down on the pot with an audible thud. The impact jarred his still sensitive rectum, forcing a low groan out of him.

"Open up," Michael's voice penetrated his pained consciousness, but Hotch resolutely shook his head 'no,' trying in vain to pull away.

A rough calloused hand grabbed his face and jaw with a painfully tight grip, forcing him to still lest he want to have his jaw broken. There was no question in Hotch's mind that this unsub could do exactly that if he so desired.

"Open," Michael's voice was firm, his tone cajoling, as he bumped the front of his dick against Hotch's still closed lips.

He could smell him, and he wondered if the man had cleaned himself off after reaming his ass out the night before.

Hotch hoped so as the strong hand began squeezing his face in earnest. He felt his jaw grind as the unsub roughly pushed it back and forth, and he looked up at the man above him with clearly expressed anger within his eyes.

He had no doubt as to whether Michael would rape his mouth with or without his consent, and after finally deciding that he didn't want to have to experience it with a broken jaw, he opened his mouth and waited for the inevitable.

"Bite and I ram an ice pick up your urethra, get me?" The unsub threatened him with a growl.

He couldn't do anything more than nod his understanding as the man began sliding his cock into his unwilling mouth.

He'd never sucked cock before—_regardless of what people think about lawyers_, was his sarcastic internal comment to himself—but he did know a few things about the act itself. He knew to keep his teeth covered if he wanted to make it through the experience intact. He also knew that deep throating was harder than it looked, and he hoped that his nonexistent skills would not be put to the test.

The hand on his face didn't go away, and neither did the misery in his gut at self-degrading act he was being forced into performing. However, both of these concerns faded into the background as more cock was forced into his mouth, and he tried to not gag. The smell was bad enough, but the taste of unwashed male was making bile literally rise in his throat, and he had to blink hard to keep his watering eyes from actually producing tears.

"That's good Aaron," Michael was practically crooning at him and idly he wondered if he could take the chance of biting after all. It would be excruciatingly painful to the other man and would likely force him to his knees. But was he strong enough to pull the leash out of his hands and then get away before the other man regained his feet?

He didn't know.

The tip of the cock in his mouth brushed the back of his throat and he let loose an involuntary gag.

"Remember Aaron, the ice pick isn't too far away," Michael's voice broke through his thoughts with a knowing look.

Steeling himself against the assault of his mouth and trying the ignore the threat of having an ice pick blade shoved up into his cock, Hotch forced himself to focus and man up to the situation.

The man's dick was heavy and hot in his mouth and he could feel the steady drip of pre-ejaculate against the back of his tongue. It was a bitter taste which he could not allow himself to think of, lest he give into his body's need for expulsion.

"Move your tongue, that's it, back and forth," Michael was _petting_ his cheek and he could not help but give a mild shudder of distaste.

He was drooling slightly around the large obstruction in his mouth, but was loathe to actually try to swallow against it. He didn't have any problem with trying to get the man off as quickly as possible though. The faster the unsub ejaculated, the faster his experience would be over.

_At least until Michael recovers_, was the uncomfortable thought his mind added.

The hand on his face moved to his hair and he braced himself for the grip he knew was coming. Soon, all too soon, his captor did exactly that, just as he began fucking his mouth in earnest. Hotch fought against himself and made his mouth and throat relax as much as possible. His air was being cut off again as the big cock pushed itself rhythmically against the back of his throat, and he knew it wouldn't be long before Michael pushed in just that much further.

His eyes watering, he was gasping for air by the time his captor had reached a brutal pace. Two short gasps were all he got before the cock was being forced past his tonsils and then down his throat itself. Both of Michael's hands grabbed his head, pulling opposite handfuls of his hair as the man tried to force himself as far down as possible into the tight cavity inside his neck. His mouth and nose were pushed up nauseatingly close to the black bush of smelly pubic hair that ringed the protruding cock. He felt his heartbeat pound alarmingly loud in his ears as his oxygen starved body tried to find air. His throat opened and closed around the offending organ, and just before dropping into unconsciousness, it unloaded into him. He was forced to swallow the vile mess into his body, his nose and eyes streaming mucous and tears as he fought against the overwhelming urge to vomit.

And then his mouth and throat were free of the obstruction and he was being jerked forwards, off of the toilet, only to collapse at the monster's feet as he gasped and choked for the much needed air. He tried to spit the taste out of his mouth as fast as possible, before it had a chance to really register with his senses, but it was to no avail.

His stomach trying to rebel, he curled up on his knees with his hands around his midsection and tried to regain his carefully guarded control over his body. It was hard work between the shuddering of his limbs and the rolling feel of his gut.

Still coughing and spitting, he barely noticed it as the unsub pulled him up by one shaking arm and made him move across the room on legs that were barely holding him up. It was only the continued fear of the unsub having to _carry_ him that kept him moving.

And then they had finally stopped and he was allowed to drop back down onto the uncomfortable and cold floor. Wiping tears away from his eyes, Hotch realized with a start that they had stopped next to the large tub.

"You're dirty, Aaron. You need a bath."

He didn't have to look up to see the leer that seemed to be permanently affixed to the other man's face.


	3. Water

**Chapter 3 – Water**

Aaron Hotchner stepped into the bathtub, only to be brought up short by something he saw there.

There was a collar imbedded in one side of the bathtub.

Hotch barely had enough time to realize what he was looking at before feeling Michael's hand on his on the top of his head, pushing him down into it. The metal clicked around his neck with a terrifying CLUNK. Following that, the other man took the leash that his bound hands were still attached to and locked them into place somewhere behind his head. This left Hotch with his hands pulled up next to his right shoulder; not necessarily an uncomfortable pose, but one that merely reemphasized his helplessness.

The floor of the tub was cold and unusually slick underneath his sore body. The tub was longer than his legs were; making it necessary for him to bend his knees, and keep the soles of his feet downwards—in order to keep from slipping and putting all of his weight against the collar. Of course, in turn that meant that unless he was very careful, his legs would splay open.

And Hotch didn't need to guess what Michael might do _then, _should that happen.

He watched apprehensively as Michael carefully stepped into tub. The other man was now wearing slate colored water shoes; which were clearly meant to give him better traction, unlike Hotch.

Leaning over the edge of the large bathtub, he watched as his captor picked something up from ground and then turned back in his direction—a large smile on his face that Hotch did not care for in the least.

"Open your mouth, Aaron," Michael crooned to him softly.

The man had just finished raping his mouth and now he wanted Hotch to voluntarily open up again?

Michael took a step closer and crouched down right in front of his body.

"Open up," Michael's eyes glittered dangerously at him just before one of the man's large hands reached out and grabbed him by the balls. "I can pop these like grapes; don't think I won't," his captor threatened with a growl.

He wasn't sure which hurt more, the hold on his sac or the threat. He opened his mouth obediently and then tried to be patient while he endured the further humiliation of being gagged with an open ring gag. His jaw was still aching some from the blowjob he had been forced to commit, and this merely exacerbated matters. The black straps of the gag went over the top and back of his head, and he stared angrily at Michael the entire time it took to be fitted with it. Finally done, his captor stood up and backed away, presumably to have a better look at his handiwork.

Hotch felt much more vulnerable than he had before being gagged. His mouth was open to whatever the unsub felt like doing, short of fucking. The ring was thankfully too small in diameter for that, but he could think of plenty of other things that would be just as bad.

"You know, you're right," was the only cryptic message he received before the other man began pissing on him.

Quickly turning his head to the right, he closed his eyes tightly and desperately tried to cover his mouth with his bound hands. The stream of heated urine was hitting him directly in the side of his head, and it was clear to Hotch that the other man was aiming for his hair. He tried not to vomit as this further injustice was heaped upon him. The smell of ammonia was pungent, nearly rancid in its stench, and silently he wondered how long it had been since the man had last had a good piss.

He couldn't fool himself by thinking this was merely a bad smelling shower; the stream was far too concentrated for that. Finally, as the man's pressure began dropping off, the direction of the flow shifted down his body; almost as though the unsub was following some kind of route down his flesh.

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about how warm the urine had made his scalp, and he most certainly did not want to imagine what he looked like.

"You were right; it was a good time to let my bladder go," the man chortled as he surreptitiously tried to wipe his face off with his bound hands.

"'uck you," Hotch growled out when he finally turned back to look at his captor. It annoyed him that he couldn't seem to pronounce the letter "f" with the gag in place. He wasn't worried about what the man's reaction would be to his pitiful attempt at showing his anger. What would Michael do? Fuck him?

_He's already done that,_ Hotch thought angrily as he continued to glare upwards.

The other man seemed to be smiling a bit now.

"What was that Aaron? I didn't quite hear you," Michael smiled wider and Hotch tried to regain his careful control of himself by not answering. The smell of the urine was stronger now, as the wet sections of his body cooled.

He sincerely hoped that he didn't have to learn the taste of this unsub's piss.

A memory of getting peed in the face while changing his son's diaper abruptly popped into his mind, and he swallowed hard against the pain that rose in his chest. Would he ever see his little buddy again? He tightened his jaw around the ring gag and tried to focus. He didn't have time to think about Jack. It wouldn't do either of them any good.

Michael turned his back to him and leant down to fool with something on the floor outside the tub, and Hotch found himself studying the backside of his captor with interest. The man was large, but it wasn't because of fat. It was likely that he often dressed in baggy clothes to give the illusion of being pudgy, but from his very candid point of view, it was obvious that the man's bulk was primarily composed of muscle. And still, even for all of that, Michael wasn't good looking—not by any stretch of the imagination, and yes, Hotch had tried to think about it. The man's hair was clearly thinning, and hung limply around his face. Both of their faces needed a shave, but Michael's needed it more.

His captor straightened back up and turned around with a length of tubing in his hand. Hotch realized that it was actually a garden hose. He wondered what new horrors this would-be simple device represented for him.

He sincerely hoped that the other man was not into douching.

"Are you thirsty, Aaron?"

Hotch didn't like the smile that accompanied that question, but he fought to keep his anxiety from showing in his face. He _was _thirsty—as well as hungry—but he certainly wasn't going to tell this man anything of the sort.

Michael took a step closer to him before crouching down close enough to bump their knees together. Hotch tensed up at the touch automatically and then made himself relax. Hopefully the other man didn't notice.

_Yeah right_, was his rueful thought.

"Let's see if we can't just get you filled right up," Michael continued with a smile, reaching forwards and placing the adjustable hose nozzle only inches from his open mouth. "It should be a little warm, but not too hot, Aaron."

He wished the bastard would stop calling him by his first name.

"Drink it Aaron, or I'll make sure you drown," the man said, still smiling. "And while I don't mind giving you mouth to mouth resuscitation," the smile turned into something a touch uglier, "I'm not sure the same can be said for you."

Michael was right; Hotch did _not_ want to be "saved" by this man. What he_ wanted_ was to be saved by his _team_; sooner, as opposed to later.

_Come on Morgan, connect the dots_, he pleaded in his mind.

He watched as his captor twisted the hose on and then began to drink as instructed. Luckily, the hose wasn't turned on very strong, and thankfully, Michael turned it off after what felt like about a minute to Hotch's lungs. Unfortunately, he only left it off long enough for Hotch to get about ten seconds of regular breathing in before turning back on.

By the time the water was turned off for what he hoped was the last time, he felt as though he had drunk nearly a gallon of water. He was glad that it had not been cold; otherwise, it was likely that he would have already started vomiting. Regardless, he now felt a little ill, and more than a little wet from where the excess had dribbled down his chin.

_At least some of the urine got washed off as well_, was his placating thought to himself.

"Well, we certainly wouldn't want you to get _dehydrated_ from any of our activities, now would we?"

_No, we wouldn't want that_, was his sour thought.

In front of him, he saw that Michael wasn't standing back up. Instead, the man was reaching for his knees, placing one large hand on each and gripping hard. Hotch's knees protested the motion; the skin mostly having been reduced to large angry red scabs from the previous evening's . . . activities.

_Rape,_ _say it Hotch. It was rape, pure and simple. You were raped by Michael and molested by George. Now get over it and figure out how you're going to survive this!_

His hands felt numb from being held up for so long and he wished that they weren't bound. The position was beginning to make his ass go numb, and he could feel the telltale signs that his back was soon going to join in. In addition, he could feel several of his old injuries—both joints and the parts that had been affected by Foyet's attack—beginning to add their votes of protest to his unchanging position. Not only that, but the chill in the room was making the wet portions of his body cold enough to create goosebumps, and the feel of the unsub's unmoving hands on his knees only exacerbated the icy feeling that had started skittering along his nerve endings.

He swallowed and unsuccessfully tried to wet the corner of his lips. Looking at the man in front of him, he had to wonder whether or not he had ever been military, given his ease with sneaking up on unsuspecting victims.

_Like me_.

"I like you like this," Michael said, finally breaking the silence between them.

_What, silent and at your mercy? _

Michael's hand slipped in between his knees, despite his efforts to keep them tightly closed.

"So vulnerable," his captor said breathily. "So daring, so _strong_. I can see it in your eyes, Aaron. How you hate me, how you wish you could beat me to a bloody pulp for giving you so many _conflicting _thoughts. Are you still a man? Can a man be raped?" Michael's hand stopped its downwards motion and he felt the warmth from the man's unwanted fingers wrap themselves loosely around his flaccid cock.

_Of course a man can be raped. I am still a man, rape or no rape. You don't get to take that away from me, you son-of-a-bitch._

As for his dignity, well that was a separate issue altogether.

Michael's other hand reached for something on the edge of the tub, beyond his line of vision. There was a pop of something plastic and a pause, and then the man's hand was back. He felt it rest against his thigh, cool and slick, and then those fingers moved down to his groin. One lubed finger touched his opening lightly, before pushing inside his sore rectum.

He let out a guttural hiss at the painful invasion and turned his head away so he didn't have to see the laughter in the other man's eyes.

"Come now, Aaron," Michael's voice brought his attention back to the man's face. "One would think that you didn't _enjoy_ being _caressed_ by me. Who else loves you as I do? Who else has ever touched you so _intimately?_"

His captor leaned forwards and licked Hotch's mouth, where it was still painfully stretched out around the ring gag. As he did, he slid another finger into his ass and drove it up hard into his prostate. Hotch let out another hiss, but for very different reasons than the last. _This_ touch had sent waves of pleasure coursing through him; pleasure that he couldn't ignore, even though he was desperately trying to. Michael tightened his hold on his cock and then did it again, smiling the entire time as he watched him try to remain calm in the face of such _feeling_.

His captor's mouth moved down to his neck, just above where the collar was resting, and began to lick him slowly, sucking and nibbling as he did. All the while, his fingers continued moving in his ass, pressing into his prostate damningly every second or third stroke. Michael's other hand slid up to rub a finger over his slit, and Hotch felt the man hum against his neck as his cock responded with a small dribble of pre-cum. His body was getting away from him again and he didn't like it. He didn't like it that this _bastard_ seemed to know his body better than he did.

His knees had been pushed slightly apart from the man's arm that had snaked between them, and Hotch could feel his thighs shaking from the effort of keeping them upright. His entire body hurt, even around the overwhelming pleasure that Michael was now wresting from his groin and ass. He could still feel the water that he had drunk sloshing around inside his stomach, and sickeningly he realized that it wasn't just water slopping around in there.

"I'm in you and on you, Aaron," Michael stopped licking his neck long enough to say, almost as though he could hear Hotch's thoughts. "I've sucked you into my being and you're my bitch now, my _whore_. I touch you and you scream for more. Don't try and deny it," the man wheezed with laughter against his throat and he inadvertently let out a slight shiver.

His captor's weight was pressing against him, pushing him down into the ridiculously slick bottom of the tub. Then, without warning, his feet slipped from where they were precariously holding him upright, and he slid downwards slightly, catching his neck on the collar and straining his airway in the process. The fingers in his ass were suddenly much more prevalent in his mind as he fought to breathe, and he realized what the man's sick plan was as he tried to push himself back up.

Pleasurable sensation pulsated through his groin and stomach, making his cock hard and wet with need; even as he was slowly suffocating to death. His vision began blacking before he finally chose to do what he knew was being silently asked of him. He groaned as he pushed down against the fingers in his ass, the waves of wonderful feeling intensifying as his prostate was further manipulated, but it was enough to push him up off of the ring of metal that previously had been cutting off his air. He gasped for air and the black in his vision receded. Michael was no longer attacking his neck, but instead seemed content to be back to staring at him suggestively.

In order to keep breathing, he had to keep pushing down on those hateful fingers still twisting and hurting within him. He had to keep pushing on them regardless of the enjoyment his physical self was getting from such pointed caresses, and he could feel his cock adding its vote into the mix as well as it further strained in Michael's skillful fingers. He could hear his heart beating loudly in his ears, almost but not entirely draining out the pulsing _want_—the _desire —_that was begging to be fulfilled within him by his rapist.

His air was threatening to be cut off again as his brain moved beyond thinking; his body was getting lost in the sensations working their way through him. Distantly he felt himself let out a groan. He wanted—no, he _needed_ more—his cock needed more, and Michael seemed to understand this, because abruptly he felt the man's hot wet mouth envelop _him_, and he threw his head backwards and _whined_. His mind was silently horrified at himself, but his body didn't care, because it was so _good_. The man's mouth was fucking him, pushing and pulling against his sensitive flesh with a heated fury that he had never experienced from his wife when they had been married. He had barely been aware that such oral bliss could even _exist_, and he was far beyond words now as such extreme pleasure threatened to overwhelm him.

Suddenly the mouth left him and the fingers exited his body, but before he could even react, something much bigger was replacing them and he ashamedly felt himself pushing against the other man's _cock_. He was _so_ close, so close to completion; it was all he could think about. The man's cock was pummeling his insides furiously now, and he felt Michael's hands push them underneath his arms and lift him up slightly with each violent thrust. His legs were splayed open, his cock was weeping, its tip red and angry as he endured being used, being _raped _once more. He threw his head back again and closed his eyes tightly, giving himself over to the sensations charging through his battered flesh. It only took a few more heavy thrusts against his prostate, and then Michael was attaching his teeth to his shoulder, biting hard enough to break the skin. The pain of that mixed with the pain of his body and rectum, adding themselves to the unspeakable pleasure being tugged from his prostate.

And it was too much for him to fight against, and finally he howled as his orgasm was ripped from him, against his will, coating both of their chests with his warm fluids. A few more hasty thrusts and then he felt the other man coming in his ass once more, adding to his humiliation. His penis was still being held in Michael's hand and its sensitivity caused him to shudder. The exhilaration from the orgasm took several moments to begin fading, but when it did, he let out another small groan. The pain was once again first and foremost in his mind, and he could feel the warm telltale signs of blood coming from the wound on his shoulder.

He barely noticed Michael's hands on his neck, but suddenly the collar was gone and he was slumping down on his side, the leash on his bound hands no longer tied behind him either. He could still feel the other man's cock in his ass, but more importantly, he could feel his emissions dribbling out around it, further adding to his sullied feeling. He hoped to God and the fates beyond that Michael was clean.

Then at long last, the other man's softened organ was pulling from his body, leaving in its wake a flood of cooling fluids. He made himself open his eyes once they were free, and saw the cum moving sluggishly towards the drain. He wasn't at all surprised to see that it was tinged pink. Not entirely aware of doing so, he curled himself up tighter and forced his backside to the wall, putting his bound hands in front of his groin protectively. He didn't care what kind of image he was projecting now; it was either this or he was going to start vomiting. He felt sick, worn out and thoroughly violated.

Perhaps taking pity on him, Michael leaned forwards and after fiddling at the back of his head, went ahead and removed the gag from his mouth and threw it over the side of the tub. Hotch closed his mouth with an audible CLICK and tried not to groan aloud from the overwhelming pain that was now blossoming in his jaw, neck and head. It was almost worse than the pain in his lower regions, but not quite.

He realized that he must have drifted off for a moment, because what felt like only minutes later, he felt Michael's hands on his body, lifting him up into a sitting position to keep from being drowned by the warm water that was now filling the large tub. He felt himself flinch at the man's fingers touching his flesh, but thankfully was allowed to pretend that it hadn't happened. Michael wasn't truly looking at him now, other than to keep him upright and alive as he cleaned the drying excesses off of his skin.

"I think I could love you, really Aaron," Michael said softly, touching his cheek lightly with his fingertips.

"Last I checked," Hotch bit out hoarsely, "_love_ doesn't involve _rape_," he stated pointedly as he forced himself to look straight in his captor's eyes.

"Perhaps not," Michael smiled a touch, before picking a syringe off of the edge and jabbing it in Hotch's thigh.

Then everything went black once more, but this time, Hotch welcomed the change.


	4. Taking a Chance

**Chapter 4 – Taking a Chance**

Hotch awoke to find himself in the same bed as before. His bladder was screaming with need in his head; the urge to _go_ overwhelming in its intensity. He forced his eyes open, only to quickly realize that he was alone.

"Shit," he whispered, glancing nearly frantically all around himself. There was nothing to be done for it.

With his arms still bound together, and the chain now locked once more to the headboard, he could do nothing more than pee off the side of the bed. Maybe Michael wouldn't notice.

"Right," he whispered cynically.

Feeling his control quickly slipping, Hotch rolled to the side of the bed as fast as his aching body allowed him, only to be brought up short by the sight of a large bucket sitting there. It had to be good enough. Maneuvering his body into the right angle, he quickly released his hold on his bladder and pissed into the bucket with a small sigh of relief.

After what felt like nearly an eternity, he shook off the final drops and rolled back over.

He was still alone.

Part of him wanted nothing more than just to roll over and go back to sleep, but he knew that if he ever wanted to get out of here, he couldn't give into that urge. His throat hurt, and he could tell that his neck was bruised. He lightly touched it with a finger and winced at the pain that was elicited. His head hurt and when he rolled over, he could feel sharp licks of fire moving through the muscles in his back.

Despite all of this, he fought to pull himself upright, resting his aching back on the steel frame of the headboard as he worked to maneuver a pillow behind himself. Finally it was there and he was up and it was then that he discovered that Michael had left him something. Sitting beside him was a plate of what looked like peanut butter sandwiches and a bottle of water, and sticking out from under the food was a note. It read:

_My Dearest Aaron _(Hotch grimaced at the heading)_,_

_As much as I would love to fuck you some more—_Hotch could see the man's leering face all too well in his mind—  
_I cannot. __One__ of us has to pull the weight around here, and since you're a bit indisposed  
at present, I suppose that it will have to be me. I will enjoy seeing your team hard  
at work however, likely scurrying around desperately as they try to conceal their worry for your  
safety from the prying eyes of those around them. Just imagine if they were to really __know__ what  
was happening to you? Would the girls cry? Would that sweet young doctor of yours finally be  
shocked into silence? Oh, the temptation to talk to them will be great, but I shall endeavor to ignore it. _

_After all, why __talk__ about you when I can simply __have__ you?_

_Love,_

_Michael_

Hotch put the letter down with shaking hands and stared at the food beside him. Given his captor's penchant for making him suffer, the sandwiches were probably filled with laxatives or drugs of some sort. On the other hand, it had been nearly two days since he had eaten and despite the very real possibility that the food could have been tampered with, the sandwiches were still mouthwatering to look at. He gingerly bent over and picked one up, bringing it to eye level. He thought it unlikely that Michael would have done something to torture him when he wasn't around to watch the effects.

Hoping that his understanding of the man's character was correct, he carefully took a bite and chewed it slowly. It certainly _tasted_ normal enough—a welcome change from the taste of the other man's cock. He moved it around his mouth, trying to discern if there were any _surprises_ waiting for him, but it seemed perfectly normal to him. Finally, in deference to his sore throat, he swallowed carefully and as slowly as he could manage. And then he waited for any ill effects to make themselves known.

When nothing happened he took another bite and repeated the process. This continued until both sandwiches had been devoured. He picked up the water bottle and eyed it with a critical eye as well. His mouth felt uncomfortably sticky with the leftover peanut butter and the cool clear water looked simply wonderful.

The sandwiches hadn't hurt him yet, and so he felt that the water was likely safe too. With that, he shrugged and then took a drink. It tasted fine, so he drank a bit more and before much longer, he had drunk half of the bottle. Deciding to save the rest for later, he managed to put the top back on and placed it beside him.

He could already feel the food working in his system; his focus was clearer and his headache had diminished significantly. On the other hand, the addition of calories to his depleted system also meant that his muscles and joints were waking up, making the level of pain in his body increase substantially. It felt as though his lower back and legs were on fire now, and he recognized the pain as that of a pinched nerve. Hell, his cock even hurt. It was red and maybe even a bit swollen looking.

"All the more reason to get out of here," he muttered just under his breath.

It worried him that he didn't know what time it was. Michael could have _just_ left or he could have left some time ago. The sandwiches had been fresh, but not exactly moist. So either the bread had been a little old or Michael had been gone for a longer amount of time than he had previously realized. He hoped it was the former, but knew better than to rely on hope. Regardless, time was running out and he knew it.

With great difficulty, he managed to roll himself over onto his stomach, so that he was on eye level with the lock that was keeping him chained to the bed. He especially hoped that Michael didn't come in while he was like this, since his new position presented quite a target to anyone looking.

The lock was a letter combination lock, consisting of four dials listing each of the twenty-six letters. If he had any tools to work with, he likely could have simply picked the lock from the inside, but since he did not, he would have to guess the code. He knew that many people used names of pets or people that were important to them as combinations. Given that he knew virtually nothing about Michael's life, he hoped that this wasn't the case.

Currently the letters read O – N – C – P. Hotch took note of that in case he hadn't escaped and Michael happened to look at it later. Was it possible that the relationship between the letters meant something? _Probably_, he sighed and narrowed his eyes. This was much more of Reid's sort of thing, not his. Then again, given the choice between having Reid in this position and himself, he much preferred the latter. The kid had already been through enough crap—Tobias Henkel came to mind immediately, and the lasting damage of the Dilaudid—Hotch would have been devastated if he had been kidnapped _again_.

Actually, come to think of it, he would have felt that way if any of his team had been taken by an unsub, but Reid was a special case. They all had a soft spot in their hearts for him—even Dave—although he knew the older man would deny it vehemently if questioned. He also knew beyond a doubt that Michael's letter had been correct about the state they would be in by now regarding him. It made him uncomfortable to think that they were worried about him, but not as uncomfortable as the thought of Michael watching them made him.

He was only a man, a very flawed man, but somehow his team didn't let themselves get bogged down in his faults. Of course they questioned his decisions from time to time, particularly when things were going badly, but overall, they worked fluidly together as a united front against the rest of the world.

Briefly an image of Strauss appeared in his mind and he let himself smirk a bit at the idea of her seeing him like this. How would she do in his place if their positions were switched? He felt his humor disappear at the thought; regardless of how they felt about the woman, he wouldn't wish this on anyone else.

Well, other than Foyet perhaps. That thought gave him chills and he forced himself to get his mind back on his work. There was no telling when his captor would be back, and he sure as hell didn't want to be around if he could help it.

He tried a variety of combinations, but none were working. A bit desperately, he thought back to the tail end of his memories from the previous encounter with Michael. What was it that the man had said to him?

"_I think I could love you, really Aaron."_

Love—he snorted aloud at the thought. While it was possible that in Michael's twisted world, this _could_ be proof of his _love_, Hotch knew that it couldn't be all there was to it. Clearly his captor had been abused for a long time by someone he trusted, and likely during his formative years, if the look in the other man's eyes meant anything. It was obvious that Michael's idea of love left something to be desired, if his relationship with Hotch was any indication of things.

He had nothing to lose by trying it. He twisted the dials around until the lock read "LOVE" and then pulled on it once more. To his great shock and surprise, the lock opened and the chain dropped free from the headboard. He blinked and stared for another couple of heartbeats before his brain kicked in again. Turning himself around with a low grunt, he sat up and tenderly made his way to his feet next to the bed. Swaying for a moment, he waited until the blackness faded from his eyes and then started walking, holding his still bound hands in front of his body.

The light next to the bed didn't extend very far into the open space of the warehouse, but Hotch resolutely continued forwards, knowing that he would have to find a wall eventually. Every step reminded him that he hurt, and every moment of tension filled blindness only increased that feeling.

Something flashed to his left and he flinched automatically, lowering himself to a miserable crouch as he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He could feel his legs shaking, his back and head pulsating with fire tipped pain approximately eight beats a minute faster than his own heavy heartbeat. After listening in vain for a few harried minutes, he gingerly made his way to his feet, wincing as something shifted in his lower back that momentarily made him want to scream. The sensation slowly passed and he tried to calm his racing heart rate by breathing slowly and deeply through his nose. He felt sweat beading on his forehead and under his arms, but he ignored it.

What exactly had he seen? He was well aware that he was tired, he was injured—simply put, he wasn't at his best, but that didn't mean that he had starting seeing things. He took a few more quiet steps forwards, his eyes straining to see something as his ears did the same. Nothing.

He started moving again; movements jerky as his fear for being found combated heavily with the misery in his muscles.

Unsurprisingly, when he ran into the wall minutes later, he reacted by flinching backwards, and wound up losing his balance and striking his knee hard onto the cement floor.

_Fuck!_

He felt the impact up through his thigh and had to bite down on his lip to keep from screaming with pain. Finally, after managing to find his feet again, he limped forwards and found the wall again. Something was trickling down his leg, and he knew without seeing himself that the fall had reopened the scab on his knee, making it bleed.

Keeping the wall on his right side, he began to move forwards in hopes of find a door or doorway that would lead somewhere other than _here_. The pain in his knee was fading, but the weakness in his muscles was increasing the longer he stumbled along in the seemingly unending darkness.

Abruptly he stopped and sniffed the air as a sudden breeze wafted across his face. Not quite daring to let himself hope, he started forwards again, moving as fast as he dared. Without warning, the wall he was touching ended and he was forced to stop again. Moving back to the wall, he felt it more carefully and realized that it hadn't actually stopped; instead he had found a doorway. The fresh air smell was stronger here, so without a great deal more thought, he turned and started walking again.

He blinked hard and realized that the darkness wasn't quite as dark as it had been. Moving forwards again, still listening for any other sounds, he began noticing that the blackness around him had taken on a definite _greenish_ tint. Buoyed by the hope of finding a way out of the torture trap, he moved quicker, urging his body to ignore the ache of his muscles as he continued to make his way forwards.

By the time he had made it to the end of the hallway, he could see that the source of the light was a green EXIT sign. He'd never been so happy to see that sign in all of his life. Sweat was dripping down his face by the time he made a move to push the door open. Just as he touched his fingers to the cold door, a sound from the other side froze him in his steps. His eyes wide, he turned and began to quickly walk back the way he had come as the door opened more fully; dim light pouring in around the massive figure of his captor standing in the doorway.

Irrationally, Hotch could almost feel the chill from the man's shadow as it spilled down the hallway after him. His heart jumped up in his throat as great peals of laughter began echoing throughout the space around him, and he knew that Michael had seen him. Adrenalin now picked up where his body had left off and he felt another burst of energy push through him; keeping him moving forwards long enough to duck around the corner of the main room and run the opposite way he had come.

And then suddenly it was gone and it was all he could manage just to sink gracelessly down to the floor and hide there in the darkness, praying that Michael wouldn't find him immediately, praying that the man would go the other way and give him a chance to escape. His heart was really hammering in his ears now, his consciousness beginning to threaten to leave him, and he angrily clenched his jaw, purposely causing himself pain; instinctively trying to cause enough pain to keep his body awake and not push him over any further off the edge.

He heard footsteps and he held his breath, touching his bound hands to the rough concrete under him and hoping that he wouldn't pass out _now_. The footsteps faded and he let himself breathe, before shakily forcing himself to stand back up and quietly making his way back to the exit.

He barely had turned the corner when he tripped and thumped loudly to the ground again. He could feel the tantalizing proximity of peaceful pain free unconsciousness hovering just at the edge of his mind, trying to push its way into his mind again and he shook his head and tried to make it back to his feet. He succeeded for another couple of steps before falling again, this time letting out a low groan that he wasn't aware of making. He could hear footsteps and heavy cruel breathing, and he tried to crawl forwards, the pain in his knees screaming against his movements.

It was no use. He slumped back down to the ground moments before feeling a large hand on his head, pulling his head up by his hair. Briefly, a bright light shone in his face and he closed his eyes against it and freely gave himself back over to the darkness.


	5. Please Don't

**Chapter 5 – Please Don't**

_Aaron._

Everything hurt. Hotch could feel his heartbeat pounding on miserably in his ears, but he couldn't get his limbs to respond.

_Aaron_.

He knew that voice, but he didn't like the way it made him feel and wished it would go away.

_Aaron_.

Fingers touching his body, making him squirm as he unconsciously tried to get out of their grasp. Was it Foyet? Had Foyet found a way into his nightmares and decided to torment him for the rest of his life?

_Wakey wakey, pretty little Aaron_.

He groaned. It was the first audible sound he had made in hours.

_Daddy's got a treat for you_.

No! His father was dead. His father was dead, dead, dead. He couldn't hurt them anymore. Never again would his father beat him or his mother half to death.

_Daddy's going to make you feel good_.

"_No_," was the anguished cry that he called out from his trouble sleep.

A hand was stroking the inside of his thigh and he tried to fight back. He tried to move. But he couldn't.

_Bad Aaron. Don't you know anything yet? Daddy _always_ wins._

He tried to stifle the sob that came involuntarily out of his mouth at the man's words. He was right. Daddy always won. He was _always_ bigger, stronger and faster.

Hotch opened his eyes at last, squinting against the harsh work light that lit the space around the bed. The bed—he looked around and finally realized why he couldn't move. He was spread eagle, each limb tied to a bedpost. And kneeling between his legs and a lascivious look on his haggard face?

_Michael_.

The sight twisted his stomach, and he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose to make it past the mix of emotions and memories that flowed almost violently through his mind.

"You're not my father," he pointed out hoarsely, his throat sore.

"Because your daddy is your hero?" His captor spat back sarcastically, his eyes practically glowing with madness.

"Because my father is _dead_," he hissed. It felt good to say the words.

"Mine is too, Aaron," Michael answered with a partial smile. Still grinning, he put a hand on each side of Hotch's chest and then leaned forwards and positioned his body directly above him.

The monster was staring him in the eye and Hotch made himself stare back unflinchingly. The unsub leaned his face down, his eyes still staring at him intensely, and then proceeded to surprise him by kissing him lightly on the forehead.

"My daddy always did that before he fucked me," Michael giggled.

"How old were you?" Hotch whispered, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move.

Michael looked at him curiously as though he didn't understand.

"When it started—how old were you when it started?" He had his suspicions, and Michael's lack of understanding only confirmed them.

"Always, Aaron. My pretty pretty Aaron," Michael answered with a slightly dazed look. Bending his head down again, he kissed Hotch again, but this time on his left cheek, followed shortly thereafter on his right.

"You don't need to do this, Michael. Your father's already dead," Hotch whispered, feeling anger, but also sadness for his tormentor. "He won't ever hurt you again."

"Liar!" The large man yelled, his face turning splotchy red. "It never stops! He's always in my head, always pushing, always _hurting!"_ Michael screamed, slapping his own head with each spoken "always."

Without warning, the man above him suddenly pulled himself back into his previous position between Hotch's legs. One meaty hand shot out, grabbing Hotch's balls and squeezing hard, causing him to wheeze painfully as his body arched off of the bed in a futile attempt to get free.

He only had enough time to turn his head to the side before retching up the stringy remnants of his last meal. Stars swam in front of his eyes and he retched again, his body pulling painfully against his restraints as he heaved. His head finally thumped back down on the pillow, his face wet with tears as he tried to control against the painful urge to hurl again.

His balls ached, pounding with a sickening level of pain that pulsated through his groin and up into his stomach. He would have curled up in the fetal position if his hands and arms hadn't been spread and tied. Tears were still swimming in his eyes when he felt the familiar touch of slick fingers around his anus.

"No," he ground out, barely more than a grunt around the all encompassing pain that had taken over his senses.

"Hush baby," Michael crooned, his eyes dark with madness as he slid a finger into him. "Daddy's gonna take care of you," he said, pulling a rough hand down Hotch's still trembling stomach.

"_No_," he tried again, recognizing the pleading sound in his voice and hating himself for it.

"Shh," Michael told him again, adding a finger and twisting it around nearly hard enough to make him become sick again. It wasn't helping any that the puddle of vomit was not six inches from his head.

Sweat was beading on his body, and he could feel himself trembling against the lasting misery of his injured balls alongside the renewed pain of his injured rectum. He couldn't go through this again. He was at the end of his rope.

"Please," he pleaded, not willing to let himself think of it as actually _begging. _His father hadn't reduced him to that since he was nine. He pulled against his restraints, willing them to break, to loosen, praying that something would happen to let him out of the situation he was being forced to experience.

Nothing happened, other than another finger being added, and he could feel his breathing increase speed in his ears.

"Stop. Michael, don't do this," he pleaded, turning his head away from the disgusting stinking mess and closing his eyes against the tears that were insistently falling.

As always, those hateful fingers found his prostate and he felt the pleasure well up as a result. However, this time the sensation almost made him feel sick, and he actually had to bite down on his lower lip to distract his body from vomiting again.

Any time now, any time those fingers would remove themselves from his body and he would experience the horrid feeling of another man's unwanted cock pushing its way into him. He couldn't do this. Not again, not here, not now. His body was weak, he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop sweating.

"What are you doing?" He rasped out, as Michael insistently pushed another finger into his already screaming body.

He only received a smile for his trouble and he closed his eyes against the pain once more. The discomfort in his ass was biting, shoving against the steady deep thud and the nauseating feel of the pain from his balls that had continued to pull through him unabated.

"Stop," he gasped out, pushing his sweaty head backwards into the bed.

"Aaron, you look absolutely ravishing," his tormentor nearly _purred_, making him swallow hard against the misery that rose in his throat at the man's words.

Michael was very nearly _fisting_ him now, fucking his ass with a very slick hand and striking his prostate every second or third pass. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding hard as though he had just spent the last ten minutes chasing after an unsub through the woods.

The fingers in his ass finally pulled out, making a whimper try to squeeze out of his throat as they did so; before being replaced by the man's all too familiar cock. Unlike their first time, Michael didn't push into him slowly, but instead kept up the steady rhythm that his hand had started.

Hotch couldn't fight back when his father had beaten him time and time again as a child for the most minor of infractions. He couldn't fight back when he had been pinned on the floor under Foyet's sharp blade, being manipulated through the cloth of his pants. He couldn't fight back when Michael had kidnapped him, or when he had fucked him the first or the second time.

"Please stop," he gasped out, his voice the only means of fighting he had left.

His cock wasn't even responding to the pain pleasure that he was receiving from the stimulation of his prostate through his ass. He could barely see through the tears that would not stop. He could barely move around the restraints, and the bruises on his neck made breathing and speaking difficult at best.

"Please stop," he asked again, closing his eyes and _enduring_ the sensations rippling through his nerves. "Please, please," he pleaded as the man at the other end of him picked up speed, beating his insides up just like he done to Hotch's outsides.

Then BANG! A door flying open and the sound of running feet coming closer to them.

Perhaps sensing his time was running out, Michael began thrusting harder than ever before into him, pulling his fingernails down the sides of Hotch's legs in an attempt to make him clench down harder than he already was.

"FBI! Get off of him, you worthless son of a bitch!" Morgan's voice interrupted the noise of those coming in.

"Hah!" Michael shouted out as he finally climaxed, ejaculating even as Derek Morgan pulled him away from his unit chief, wrestling the deranged man to the ground and putting him down hard.

"Dave, please," Hotch's voice was past hoarse as his old friend finally made it to him. He didn't even notice it when the man pulled off his own white dress shirt to cover up his groin. Later he might wonder why the man was only in an undershirt, but for the moment, it didn't register at all.

Then Rossi's pocket knife was in his hand and cutting away the restraints, one by one until he was free.

"That _fucking_ bastard," his friend raved as he surveyed the damage of Hotch's body. "Where's the fucking EMTs!" He watched Dave bark to Emily and JJ, clearly trying to keep them away from seeing him like this.

"Hotch?" That was Spencer's timid voice, but why was he holding Hotch's hands?

Oh right, because his wrists were bleeding from the restraints. Right.

His breath was still whistling in his ears and his heart was still pounding painfully in his chest when the "fucking EMTs" finally managed to get to him.

"Holy shit," one of them whispered before received a death glare from Derek.

"Hotch? Fuck man," Derek added his two cents in, while the EMTs were getting him on the stretcher. "We found you, but—," the big black man turned his head to try and wipe unobtrusively at his eyes.

"Good to see you too," Hotch rasped, squeezing his friend's hand as he was wheeled past him. He heard Derek bark out a laugh that was more hysterics than amusement at his comment.

"The man just made a _joke_ Reid. Did you hear him? Damn!"

And then he was going into the back of the ambulance. The pain still present in his mind, in his body, but the relief was bubbling up almost as strongly.

"Dave?" Hotch jerked, pushing against the tech's hand as he tried to find his friend.

Rossi's face appeared beside him and he let himself be pushed back down.

"You coming?" He whispered, not wanting to appear weak in front of the team, even after all they'd seen already.

"Hell yes. You think I'm going to _ever_ let you go off by yourself again?"

But under the bluster, under the righteous anger, Hotch could see the other man's fear, _his_ relief.

"If you're coming, come on," one of the techs put in to Dave.

The siren was switched on and Hotch finally allowed himself to close his eyes, his tears beginning to trickle slowly down his cheeks once more.

* * *

_**A/N –**__ I'm debating writing some sort of epilogue. Opinions? _


	6. Epilogue Aftermath

_**A/N – **__Okay, you've convinced me. Here's a small epilogue for your reading pleasure (hopefully). I've decided that if I end up continuing on with his recovery part, I'll just start another story for it. So add me to your author alerts! _

**Epilogue – Aftermath**

"I just—I just can't believe it," Emily said numbly from where she and JJ were huddled in a corner of the waiting room.

"I know. I'm really glad we found him, but I feel guilty for not getting there any sooner," JJ answered in a soft voice, staring unrelentingly at the floor with a balled up Kleenex sticking out of her fist.

On the opposite side of the waiting room Derek Morgan was pacing back and forth against the wall, growing more agitated the longer he went without any kind of news. Reid and Garcia kept an eye on him as they talked together in low tones. They knew all too well how volatile the man could get—especially when it came to someone he cared about.

"I knew I should have worn waterproof mascara today!" Garcia was fretting, her eyes smeared with black from the many tears she had shed since learning of Hotch's condition. "And they just let Rossi stay with him?"

"It was either that or they were going to have to sedate him," Reid answered with an uncomfortable expression.

"Who, Hotchy?" Garcia sniffled into her sodden Kleenex ball, not noticing the distasteful look that Reid was giving said ball.

"No, Rossi!" Reid's eyes were wide with the memory of the so very unlikely occurrence.

. . .

"Dave," Hotch's weak voice broke through the older man's quiet brooding. After much fuss from the doctors, Aaron had finally been put in a room for the night. Rossi had promised not to leave his friend's side and he hadn't.

"How you doing?" Rossi asked softly. Hotch had finally woken up after the surgery needed to repair his rectum, and he knew that the younger man was still under the influence of the post operative medications.

"Tired," his friend all but whispered, his eyes just barely open.

"Then go to sleep," Rossi suggested good naturedly, feeling the urge to roll his eyes but suppressing it.

"Thank you—thanks for finding me," Hotch pushed on, ignoring his advice. "I knew you'd come," his words broke off as a yawn forced its way out of his mouth, followed by a slight wince.

"Your jaw hurting?" Rossi asked in concern. If Aaron was still feeling that pain through the meds, maybe it was time for a new dose.

"Not as bad," Hotch replied distantly.

_Not as bad as what—as before? _Rossi heard what Aaron hadn't said. Part of him dearly wanted to know what horrors his friend had been forced to experience while at the mercy of the unsub, but another part of him was just as happy not to know.

"Is there anything you need that we can get for you?" He asked, hoping that his friend was being kept awake by something trivial like not having the right socks on, instead of being tortured by the memories of the past few days.

Hotch's eyes glanced down his body over the skimpy hospital gown and then moved his attention back to Rossi.

"Tell Morgan to go and get me some sweats," he answered with a partial grimace.

It was well known among the team that Aaron hated hospitals and the lack of privacy that came with them. Rossi thought that it was likely that the latter opinion had only been exacerbated from his time with the unsub.

Unbidden, the image of Michael Kibner raping Hotch's helpless form popped into his mind. He knew that he wouldn't be the only one to be haunted with that picture.

In wrestling the unsub away from Hotch, Morgan had dislocated the bastard's shoulder, resulting in the need for a hospital visit for the unsub too. Likely Strauss wouldn't be too happy about that, but if she dared complain, he wasn't afraid to tell her where and how to stick it.

For god's sake, this was _Aaron Hotchner_ they were talking about here. He was the permanently cool boss that everyone relied on. Hell, half of the youngsters on their floor weren't even sure if he ever blinked! He'd been like that since the beginning, and as far as Dave could tell, his stiff and calm exterior had only been perfected with time.

Upon hearing nothing coming from the bed, Rossi looked up and realized that Aaron had fallen back to sleep. Thank God for small mercies.

. . .

Some hours later, Hotch opened his eyes to find Derek sitting beside him, with Rossi asleep in the other bed. He was thankful that his team had made sure that he had been given a room to himself.

"Hey Hotch," was Morgan's greeting. Carefully, Hotch looked over the younger man and took in his unshaven face and tight—almost pained—smile.

"You've looked better," he pointed out gruffly, his lips upturned ever so slightly to show that he was teasing.

He watched Derek run a hand over his face, a slightly sheepish but more natural smile peeking out around it.

"Yeah well, you try putting up with Garcia and Reid when they've had too much coffee and then see how you feel."

Hotch snorted aloud at the image. Then he tried to shift himself upwards into more of a sitting position, only to be brought up short by a sharp flash of pain through his back and groin. He let out an involuntary grunt and watched a look of concern come over his insubordinate's face.

"Hotch? You sure you should be moving like that?" Morgan asked, half out of his seat as though he wanted to help, but knew better than to offer.

"I'm fine," he retorted a touch harshly, breathing through his nose again as the pain surged forwards once more. Maybe lying down on his side was a better way to be after all. Yes, it was definitely better. He sunk back down slowly and rearranged himself under his own steam, sending Morgan warning glances the entire time.

"Aaron," he heard come from the other bed and he turned his glare over to Dave. "He's only trying to help," which was followed by a long suffering sigh.

"He helped already—you _both_ did. You found me," Hotch answered testily, looking anywhere but at the faces of the two men in the room with him.

"And we're going to keep helping you, Hotch," Morgan leaned forwards, catching his eye with that all too familiar steely brown eyed gaze of his.

"Whether you like it or not," Dave added, reappearing beside Morgan and leveling a stare of his own at him.

Hotch shrugged, not sure how to respond in the face of such emotional declarations.

"And if you don't believe us?" Dave was shaking a finger menacingly in the air. "I'll get Garcia in here and let her _really_ tell you. Understand me?" He said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"For God's sake, Dave," Morgan interjected; a fake look of horror on his face. "Don't terrify the man!"

Hotch felt the corner of his mouth turning up at their antics, but looking into their eyes, he knew that neither man had ever been more serious.

"Okay, okay!" He lifted his hands up off the bed in a plea for mercy, ignoring the slight pain that he felt in his shoulders and neck from the action.

"Good," Dave answered with an aggressive tilt to his voice.


	7. Sequel

Hey, just letting you all know that I have started a sequel! It's called "Now You Don't." You know, like as in, "Now you see me, now you don't." It's here:

.net/s/6468961/1/Now_You_Dont


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